end credits
by immer wenn es dunkel wird
Summary: umpteenth time's a charm, right?/ don't you know, you silly girl, witches don't deserve happy endings. GakuLuka; Cendrillon/Witch remix.


_end credits_

(after the eponymous song of Chase and Status ft. Plan B)

Note(s): So I kind of remixed the Cendrillon plotline; also I added the scenario of _Witch_ to the equation; because, in my mind, it's a plausible thing to do. Extra: winks to Greek mythology. Ever heard of _Sisyphus_?

Warning(s): mentions of **magic**; witches, homicide, crucifixion, obsessive love, etc, etc.

Summary: umpteenth time's a charm, right?/ don't you know, you silly girl, witches don't deserve happy endings.~ GakuLuka; Cendrillon/Witch remix.

_I hereby disclaim any rights_.

†

Urgent wails arise from a young one's throat; amidst a field of poppies and fungi, underneath a pitch-black night sky, a child is born. Blood sticks to the soft flesh, tufts of bleak hair are stained a tender rosé and the eyelids are glued together. Murmurs float throughout the midnight autumn air; they are in a foreign tongue and hushed, as if those who utter them are afraid to disturb the eerie peace. Holding the babe in her weak, frail arms, the mother whispers prayers of gratitude for the result of labour and proffers the shivering form in her embrace a bashful smile. Stepping closer, an elderly woman, with unruly ginger tassels and wrinkles around her eyes, observes the child underneath the crescent moon and nods solemnly.

"How shall we name her, sister?" Rocking the newborn gently, the mother looks up at the witch with an expectant gleam in her swirling crystal irises.

She clacks her tongue as if she were tasting the options and finally declares that the child will carry the name Luka. Her bony hands with unexpectedly long graceful fingers take the babe and lift her above her head. Crying at the sudden rush, the girl flails her arms helplessly. One of the fireflies buzzing around crumbles, reduced to ash and the flakes eddy upon the soil.

Grinning, rows of unsanitary yellow teeth revealed, the redhead hums her appreciation, "Yes.." She draws out the sibilant much like a serpent does, "She's special, this little one.. You shan't keep her, dear.. No, no..." Groaning, the mother steadies herself and stares at her daughter.

Somewhere in the distance, mania and outrage assembles inside the minds of peasants and unsettled villagers; they collect the pitchforks and torches. They assemble in front of their Romanesque church, the bell tolling statuesquely as they march through the gates of their home.

†

Bookmarked in the gilded tomes in the royal library, her date of birth is associated with the massacre of Enbizaka; as recorded in the national history, the scourge of God struck down twelve witches and the local authorities had them publically hanged at the piazza of the village to set a further example. Witchcraft was officially forbidden and herbalists, alchemists and undeniable beauty was frowned upon. Throughout the kingdom of Magenta, ruled by the monarchical family Kamui, inquisitors marched upon the cobblestone roads with an issued copy of the _Witchhammer_ in their travelling bags; they pattered their _amen_'s with more conviction than ordinary townsfolk and clutched a rosary in the sweaty palms of their hands.

Together with the leader of the covenant, Luka survived the spontaneous purge and wandered close to the boundaries of the monarchy. Important lessons of magic were being taught to her to ensure her further progeny; she learned how to separate organisms in time, how to fast forward and how to pause and with her utmost concentration she could project herself back into a short distance of history. Growing up under such demanding tutelage put a strain on her social behaviour; the girl developed into a beautiful girl with silken tresses and bright intelligent eyes, she had high cheekbones and a slender swanlike neck, but she disliked interacting with her peers and shied away from the public in general.

"Come now, Luka," her mentor would croon with crooked teeth, "I will apprise you of something _special_ today." Something unsettling nestles itself into the lilting tone of her screeching voice.

Looking up from the yellowed parchment of her book, the girl raises an eyebrow and upon the beckoning gesture of the vein-riddled hand, she puts aside her materials and sways over to the room.

"Today, _my dear_," she empathizes on the latter words to appear more maternal, "I will show you how to waltz."

†

From the womb of her Majesty, a son springs forth; he is christened in the church of the capital by the bishop and displayed as a bundle of sheets from a balcony of the palace to the enthusiastic crowd. He grows quickly under the watchful eyes of governesses and under the careful education of musical virtuoso and the university's finest philosophers. As common to those of royal birth, he wears his hair long; his lavender tassels swinging across his shoulders as one of the more sturdy and voluptuous of his caretakers leads him into the ballroom. It is here, in this arena of splendour and wealth, underneath the crystalline chandeliers and polished silver girandoles, where the prince would spend most of his days. Dancing and courting, until the most suitable of women comes around to take her place as his betrothed.

Tonight, to celebrate his twentieth birthday, the crown prince ceremoniously opens the castle gates to welcome his most privileged citizens for a glamorous gala. On a square-formed stage, an orchestra entertains the guests in their lavish gowns and wheedling smiles; they play polka's and waltzes and short, enjoyable interludes. Wine flows copiously, filling expensive glasses with swirling burgundy and there is food in abundance; venison, peacock, pork and bovine with several salad dressings. They cheer for their future king, _Gakupo_, they bellow, _Gakupo_, they bluster, _Long live the Prince_, they promise.

Outside the walls, a girl stands in an earthen coloured cloak, staring at the bright lights illuminating the darkening skies. She stares expectantly at the older witch, whose ginger curls withered to a listless gray, and rubs the approaching nervousness off her arms with the pad of her thumb. Her mentor slowly bends over and sparks a flame, then she retracts a pitch-black powder from a leather purse. Loud crackling erupts from the fire as she drops a few grains; Luka blinks a few time to adjust to the brightness and gawks at the wonderful garment and glass slippers which have appeared.

"Is.." She swallows, "That for me?" Her fingers fondle the silken fabric appreciatively and a few wayward locks slide over her cheeks as she gazes towards the elderly witch.

Nodding curtly, her mentor urges her to change into the ivory gown and the pair of high-heeled shoes before presenting her with a dagger, "Hide this in the folds of your dress, _my dear_." She places the hood over her head and slips on a bland mask, "Kill the prince. End the shameful lineage of the Kamui here and now." Her hands rest onthe girl's shoulders, "_At the stroke of midnight the spell will end. You have until then."_

†

Every eye in the exquisite ballroom is upon her graceful frame as she enters; carefully, she raises the hem of her fluent gown above her ankles so she wouldn't slip from the steps of the marble staircase. For a moment, she could distinguish a hitch in the melody but she dismisses the thought quickly when she adjusts her composition. Something heavy takes a hold of her heart when a majestic figure breezes through the tightly-knitted crowd of noblemen and ladies of the bedchambers, a figure who graciously wears the royal shades of purple in his appearance. His irises are an inquisitive violet, but they rest behind a flimsy film of admiration and Luka briefly wonders if it is herself who this wonderful creature holds in such a high regard.

He extends his hand, gloved in wisteria-tinted suede, and invites her for a dance. They twirl over the glimmering stone tiles of the dance floor, a web of pleasant music constricting around them and their spectators clapping at their triumphant performance. Her chest heaves underneath the alabaster corset, the girl gives him a tentative smile when her nerves jitter underneath her flesh.

"You are utmost lovely." He charms her in a deep rich tone, "May I have the pleasure of knowing your name, my lady?"

She grants him a few last wishes, _call me Luka, your highness_, she follows him towards the open gardens and her lungs embrace the chill winter air, she allows him to gently press his lips just below her mandible and she welcomes his tender kisses with flustered cheeks and wide, almost fearful eyes.

When he glides his gloved knuckles down her jaw line, the witch doesn't hesitate in retrieving the hidden blade from in between the endless silk and stabs him in the chest, the steel sinking between two lily-white ribs. Just a few minutes before the pendulum swings twelve o'clock, Luka comes to her senses, turns and runs upon her glass slippers towards her sweet freedom. In the nick of time, she finds herself in her earthen rags and bare feet with a haunted look crossing her features. Cries of outrage follow her memories of the evening and she cries herself to sleep.

†

Jabbing the slumbering girl in between her shoulder blades with her cold index finger, the witch releases a stream of words to wake her up, today is of utmost importance, she assures the wary child, today is the day of the ball, she says urgently with a hint of finality in her raspy soprano. Luka feels her bottom lip quiver and she stares unintelligibly towards her mentor.

"Yesterday was the day of the ball..." She utters softly, _too_ softly, for the elder witch is already bustling around, scurrying from the bookshelves in the cupboard to the desk, covered with herbs and knives.

Throwing the heavy covers off of her smooth legs, the girl rises from her bed and walks over to the large window in their temporary townhouse, underneath the people are elated. Somewhere in the distance, a troubadour sings a self-written hymn for the joyous occasion and is welcomed with spontaneous applause. She swallows a lump down her throat and spins a few rosé curls around her finger.

Her mentor swings around, scolding her for her inertia, "Come, my child, we must go practice one last time.. You will attend the ball tonight. Aren't you delighted?" Her cheer is artificial but Luka barely notices this time.

"You want me to assassinate the prince, correct?" The words escape her before she realizes it, her silhouette still glued to the window frame.

Pausing in her actions, the old lamia slowly turns and faces her with a proud sneer, "I never knew you were this astute, Luka. Yes.." She confirms, "You must kill that disgraceful ingrate, you _simply must_. Blood must be avenged by more blood. For every _sister_ we have lost, he will pay."

Down below, the crowd keeps dashing around with an elated atmosphere clinging to their steps; her tongue flicks out to moisten her bottom lip. Perhaps her magic warns her for a disturbance in the time continuum, _time is so terribly relative_, perhaps she isn't destined to do this ungrateful job, perhaps she is interfering in the natural order of fate... She swirls around and presents her mentor with a pretty smile, showing her consent through her actions and sauntering over to the sturdy desk.

"I will make you proud.." Luka promises with opposite thoughts rampaging inside her head.

†

Parading in the splendid magnolia-white gown, she descends the staircase, the palm of her hand gliding down the with vines-carved railing with every step she takes. Uncountable pairs of eyes behold her behind Venetian masks, each and every one more intimidating than the previous. Again, there is the palpable hesitation of one of the violinists, marking the room with a nanosecond of deafening silence. Her jaw is tight as the prince carelessly weaves through the clouds of perfume and happiness. His fingers encircle hers as he pulls her towards him for a waltz.

She loses herself in the moment again; just his amethyst orbs boring into hers with such intensity, she almost forgets she's _damned_ and not a fairytale princess. Despite the glass slippers. _(they splinter when the clock strikes. her dress turns to rags. her heart breaks.)_

"You're utmost lovely." His compliment thrusts into her fragile mind, dragging scars across her soul.

In an effort to regain composure, she replies with a nervous stammer, "You.. You shouldn't think so high.. Highly of me, your Majesty."

He's puzzled at her statement but eventually breaks down in a pleased smile, "You think too modest of yourself, my lady. May I have at least the pleasure of knowing your name?"

Shaking her head lightly, she takes a step back and effectively halts their dance, "Forget me." His hands reach out to her, but she turns and just runs.

Away from him, from the ball, from the marvellous ballroom and buffet table and guests and chandeliers.. _Lord_, _the chandeliers_. Just as she reaches the stairs and Gakupo begins to gallop after her, one of the cables holding the large luster decrepitates and the entire thing comes crashing down. His outcry of sheer anguish reverberates throughout the palace, drowning the playful melody of the orchestra and the pleasant chattering of the crowd.

Crumbling to the floor, Luka holds her head and just weeps. Her eardrum mutes every sound, every whisper and every shout of surprise. Her white frock turns to a familiar cloak and her shoes shatter and the glass pricks the soles of her feet. Her blade makes a loud 'clang' as it falls upon the tiles. Guards come and drag her away by the elbows. She eventually falls unconscious in a damp, murky holding cell.

†

"Rise and shine, my dear," Her mentor crows into the shell of her ear, "Today is a very special day." Her eyes snap open to the prodding of a sharp nail in between her shoulder blades.

She whispers, "_No." _Jolting upright and almost knocking the old witch off her feet by the sudden startling action, Luka wildly throws the sheets away and walks over to the window. Again, the townsfolk skip around like exuberant hounds, sniffing the scent of fresh meat in the air.

Squinting those ocean-blue stones of her shut, she tries to block out the confused whining of her mentor and focuses on a point in the future. _Tomorrow morning_. She mumbles to herself, _tomorrow morning_.

When she opens her eyes, she's staring at the scenery of a secluded area near the castle walls. Taking a sharp inhale of oxygen, the girl watches the lamia kindle a fire and the happy cries of delight from the palace guests resound all over the place. Orange flares turn a dangerous green when the witch throws a strange pitch-black powder of the flame. The outline of her wonderful gown shapes itself out of thin air and the glass slippers glow weakly before they are their usual crystal clear.

"Hide this in the folds of your dress." Her mentor lilts and waves the dagger in front of her mistrusting eyes. Luka grabs the blade and hides the weapon in waves of silken fabric.

Nearly stomping down the marble steps, the witch gazes over to the orchestra, to the violinist halting in his solo to observe her beauty. She shrieks out in a shrill tone, "_Don't mind me, young sir._ Keep playing!"

Gakupo comes with his regal strides and the girl doesn't hesitate to stab him in the middle of his chest, right in the heart. Gawking in surprise, the prince runs down his knuckles down her jaw line.

"Why?" He asks feebly and the love for him swells in her docile heart.

She doesn't answer him and as the guards come storming, the witch closes her eyes again, exhales loudly and focuses on the following morn'. Her silent desperate pleas for time to pass are unanswered and the captain of the palace security beheads her on sight.

†

Her neck is still intact when she awakes and her mentor regards her curiously, examining her every move with an almost scientific rigidity. Luka groans audibly in frustration, _this can't be happening_. Seeming to be stuck in a loop, she spends her days –or day? She's quite unsure how to define her current situation- trying out various strategies.

First, instead of attending the gala, Luka flees from the secluded area before her mentor could conjure the majestic frock. Hiding in a tavern a few miles from the capital and her temporary household, she learns that a most horrible thing has happened this evening; the prince was poisoned.

Seeing as how she wakes up in her usual resting place, she tries avoiding the prince at the ball all together, she rips apart her beautiful gown before descending the staircase. Luka is almost annoyed when the upcoming king takes pity upon her state and comforts her. Just as he is about to kiss her, one of his most loyal followers stabs him in the back. She holds him to her chest and sobs at the ludicrous timing. /whether it is for the lost kiss or his lost life, she doesn't know./

Then, the young witch decides to murder her mentor instead, in the vain hope that it is originally _**her**_ doing, _**her**_ magic that is causing a discrepancy in the timeline. They struggle in the dead of night, but she plunges the knife deep into the elderly woman's heart. Nothing changes, the prince ends up being strangled by a rebelling servant before the ball began and her mentor's cawing voice still disrupts her rest the following morning.

†

One morning, or perhaps in some twisted sense the same morning, she reaches the conclusion that perhaps the whole event of the gala itself is at a fault. Luka pins her thoughts on the hour before sunrise and sneaks over to the palace. She poisons one of the guards standing watch and wanders through the endless stretches of hallways. Hiding her long rosé locks underneath her scarlet hood, she manages to track down the ceremonial master.

"Who are you?" He asks her in fright, his hands shaking as they hold the sheets as a comforting frame to protect his modesty.

Smirking, Luka merely responds, "Your death warrant." Muffling his high-pitched screams with his goose-feathered pillow and successfully smothering the life out of his very veins, she can't help but release a strangled laugh.

When she almost reaches the main entrance, a foreign, yet strangely recognizable, touch impedes her escape. Exhaling through her nostrils, the witch observes the pale appendage slide down to her elbow and the lean fingers grasping her forearm.

"Give me a reason not to call for the guards right now." He whispers and the sensation of his breath against her cheek makes her skin tingle.

She graces him with a sincere smile and lets down her hood, revealing all of her features. Gakupo gasps and releases her, regarding her with a shell-shocked expression.

His voice wavers when he speaks, "A-are you one of the foreign noblewomen? If so, do accept my apology for my rude behaviour. It is simply..." She hushes him and shakes her head.

"I'm just a ghost passing. You haven't seen me, your Majesty." Luka sways over to the open doorframe and stills for a second to give him a meaningful glance. "But you might.. Tomorrow afternoon. In front of the church."

†

Reality supplants her dreams when she blinks a few times to adjust to the bright sunlight in her bedroom. Her mentor is scribbling with a plume on parchment, the scratches competing with the gentle murmurs from the plaza below. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, the girl stands, leaving the sheets a crumpled heap on her mattress and lumbers over to gaze out of the window. Instead of looking pleased, the crowd looks distraught. Luka overhears one of the merchants claiming what a shame it was that the ball of last night got cancelled. Her smile takes up half of her face.

"What are you so happy about?" Her mentor hisses nearly venomously, "As I explained you yesterday, my plan is foiled. _Bah_, by some commoner who just needed to get himself killed." She wipes a few greying locks from her forehead and continues her writing.

Luka just keeps smiling and asks, "I'm going out this afternoon. Groceries. We're low on vegetables, I'm afraid." She is dismissed by the wave of a hand.

Opening the doors of her wardrobe, the young witch scans through the clothing articles and settles for a fashionable gown in blue with white ribbons and tulle. Tying a matching headdress in her tresses, she also grabs a basket and takes her leave. Nearly dashing towards the piazza in front of the sandstone church, Luka can't chase the signs of joy from her features; her smile is wide and mirthful, the wrinkles around her eyes are charming and there's a certain skip in her steps.

Without warning, the breeze blows the lacy ribbon in her hair away and toys with the straps before releasing the headdress all together. In an outstretched, extended hand the item lands.

"You've come." She exclaims and walks over to him; a regal figure in all sorts of purple. Amethyst irises, daring and warm, lavender curls, magenta jacket and wisteria pants; she has to stop herself from embracing him.

Gakupo laughs skittishly, "Curiosity, quite proverbially, killed the cat."

†

_Fate_ is a cruel temptress, her mentor once remarked and Luka foolishly thought she could please the two-faced mistress by saving the crown prince's life. There is a girl, with beautiful teal tresses and distrustful eyes, who clutches a rosary like preachers do and recites the Bible like devout Catholics do. She dresses in gowns of embroidered gold and she had decreed for Luka to die.

"Your Majesty," she had said, this silly preacher girl, "Look at this depiction of the Enbizaka witch. Doesn't she remind you of someone?" He hums and stills and murmurs a faint _impossible. _Except it isn't.

Militia lead her to a large wooden cross, heaps of hay scattered at the foot and a circle of townsfolk observing the trial from within a safe distance. Before this unforgiving executioner straps her to her pending demise, the crown prince steps forwards with his sword unsheathed. There are tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and he motions for her to sit down on her knees. With one powerful strike, _and she almost thinks he's as merciful to kill her right then and there_, her long tresses are severed from her head and flutter around aimlessly in the wind.

Promiscuous flames tickles her feet after the silly preacher girl had given the order to set fire to the hay. Luka stares at _her_ prince, his regal posture crooked and bended, a hand hiding a shocked expression and the scene reflecting upon his retina.

"Repent!" They ask of her and she bows her head. "Repent!" The silly preacher girls stands in front of her herd with one arm outstretched, the words of God resting in her hand.

In the far distance, her mentor stares at the entire ordeal from their townhouse, her wrinkled face betraying no emotion with the exception of stoic disapproval. She nods once, the old hag with her greying ginger locks, and then she curtly nods again before closing the windows. Luka sighs in acceptance, focusing on a point in the future.

From a deep swirling azure, her irises transform to a bloody crimson and she lets out a heart-wrenching sob before she disintegrates, the cells of her body dematerializing and disappearing. She leaves behind feathers of crows; tar black and unnaturally soft. It's almost _symbolic_ that Gakupo manages to catch one.

†

"There's a gala in honour of the crown prince's marriage tonight." Her mentor remarks, flat on her back in a fort of pillows. She's dying, this old witch, her strength seeps from her marrow with every breath she takes.

Luka grabs the moist cloth from the woman's forehead and allows a rueful smirk to grace her lips, "Perhaps it's appropriate I attend."

Coughing, her mentor tries to sit upright and waves away any befuddling actions from her charge with annoyance and clacks of her tongue. "Yes... Yes, _my dear_. You should.." Admiration gleams in those hazy eyes of hers.

"I'll give him a final gift.." Luka decrees, "Before _death_ does them part."

†

She descends the marble staircase in a wonderful ebony dress; her slippers are of suede and her mask is feline. There's the welcoming hitch in the solo of the violinist as he takes his time to admire the beauty slipping down the steps. From across the ballroom, the groom rises from his throne and stalks through the clouds of perfume, the intoxicating fumes of wine and the natural stench of human sweat.

"_Impossible_." He says, disbelief seeping into his low voice, rumbling from deep within his insides.

Luka extends a gloved hand, coal lace swirling around her ivory flesh in intrinsic patterns, and politely requests a waltz of him. Glancing from side to side, his pupils shifting across the white of his eyes, he nervously nods and she can almost hear the guards stampeding on their places. She gives the blushing bride with her twin tails a superior look and pulls the prince more closer to her than is appropriate.

They twirl like falling snowflakes in the blistering cold, graciously but with a sense of finality. "You never gave me your name." Gakupo remarks, the fear just an undertone in the pallet of emotions clinging to his sentence.

"Luka." She responds before drawing him _closer_, her head slightly tilted upwards and her fingers dig into his chin to drag his down. "My name is Luka, your Majesty."

In the folds of her funeral dress, there is a dagger; she kisses _her _prince passionately and the gesture draws appalling gasps from the palace guests. Melodies dwindle into the shocked note of a clarinet. When they part, the crown prince merely stares at the witch, every question and remark evident on his features.

"Because I loved you." She hisses to him, "Because I loved you and you have always deserved to die." From the folds of her funeral dress emerges a sharp, glimmering steel blade and she pushes the dagger straight into his heart. Just then, the clock counts down to twelve o'clock.

The silly preacher girl, the blushing bride with her twin tails, the _whore who stole her prince_, nearly falls into unconsciousness by the course of action; she yells, "Grab her! Grab her and finish her off!" _Off with her head, off with her head._

Luka doesn't pay heed to the raging betrothed, instead she focuses on the counts of the bell. _9. _Her bright azure bleeds scarlet. _10_. One last glance is cast at the corpse on the floor. _11._ She starts to fade into nothing. _12._ She disappears and leaves a pile of pitch black feathers behind; they are tainted crimson by the blood of the prince. It's almost _symbolic._

†

_When she wakes, it's already another day._

* * *

This turned out so much longer than I anticipated... Penny for your thoughts?


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